This Epic Story of Forbidden Love
by Flurblewig
Summary: Jesse's NA meetings introduce him to a different and unexpected kind of addiction... Walt/Jesse - humour/crack/romance/fluff
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I only watched Breaking Bad for the first time fairly recently, and it DESTROYED me. It occurred to me that Jesse's decision to sling meth to his NA group in Season 3 was the start of the domino run that led straight to hell, and I found myself wishing I could go back in time and stop that happening, and fix everything, and give them all a happy ending. Then I remembered that's what fanfic is for :)

This story starts between 3.08 'I See You' and 3.09 'Kafkaesque' then goes on its own merry way after that.

* * *

It all starts with the Misery Magnet. The guy — his name's Terence or Terrell or something like that — has been in Jesse's NA group for the last month or so and _fuck_, does this dude love to hear himself talk. And if you believe half of the fucked-up stuff he comes out with, he must love to suffer, too. Not that Jesse _does_ believe it, because he's pretty sure last week's story was the plot of some lame-ass DVD he saw at Badger's once. Even Ken, the group leader — who's got being non-judgemental down to an art that'd shame the fucking Dalai Lama — has raised an eyebrow to a level you could only describe as _skeptical_. But the Misery Magnet doesn't care. He doesn't care about Ken's eyebrows or Jesse's fidgeting or the others' glazed looks and sighs. He just keeps right on telling his stories.

The current one started out like the kind of true crime tragedy everyone's heard a dozen times before: boy falls in with bad crowd, boy starts using, boy goes off the rails. But when they get to Act 2 — boy goes through traumatic gang initiation — things take an unexpected turn and suddenly they're in a sex dungeon and instead of the gang boss telling the boy to go shoot someone in the face, he's telling him to take his clothes off.

Jesse drags a hand down his cheek. Jesus. He glances round and sees that at least a couple of the others look riveted, which, fuck, means they're gonna get porno stories for the next month. He stretches his legs out and leans back in his chair, tuning out the Misery Magnet's voice and letting his mind wander. Which he should know better than to do by now, because that's always when he gets his really, really bad ideas. To prove him right, a thought drops into the brief moment of silence inside his head: _what if Mr White did that?_

The thought's gone in an instant, but it's too late. Jesse's always had a good imagination — good visualization skills, they said in rehab — and the scene is already playing out behind his eyelids: Jesse slammed back against the wall of the lab, Mr White staring at him with that look in his eyes — the one that says he's gone into Full Heisenberg mode and you'd better make your peace with God before your cross him. And maybe the lab is bugged, like he said, maybe Gus is listening to everything, maybe there are even hidden fucking cameras and Gus is _watching_, but Mr White doesn't care. He doesn't care if Gus sees them. He _wants_ Gus to see them. Wants Gus to know that Jesse will do any goddamn thing Mr White wants, because Jesse is _his_, and that's an immutable fucking law of God and chemistry. _Take off your clothes, Jesse. Don't make me tell you again._

Jesse scrambles to sit upright and almost tips himself out of the chair. It's possible he makes some kind of yelping sound. _Fuck_. His mouth has gone dry and swallowing is painful; he rubs a hand down his throat to see if it makes it easier, but it doesn't. He coughs instead. Ken makes an enquiring kind of _you all right?_ face, and Jesse nods quickly. The Misery Magnet looks kinda hurt, but the others are sneaking him sympathetic looks. Jesse realises they think he fell asleep.

He plays to that, giving them a sheepish look and aiming a palm-up gesture at the Misery Magnet. _My bad, man. Carry on._

But Ken says they should wrap it up now, for which Jesse is profoundly grateful. He nods vigorously when Ken asks him if he's okay, then reverses direction and shakes it just as hard when Ken wants to know if there's anything he'd like to talk about.

'Are you sure? Jesse, if something Terence said triggered you or disturbed you in any way, you know you can tell me.'

'No, man, it's good. It's all good.' Jesse is backing away with his hands in the air and he knows what that looks like — they taught him about denial and defensive body language in rehab too — but he can't help it. Because yeah, he feels a little goddamn _disturbed_ right now, but he sure as shit doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't even want to _think_ about it.

So there, that's his new highest-priority goal: never think about it again. Ken should be pleased; he's keen on goal-setting, because it builds focus and discipline. And okay, maybe those things were never Jesse's strong points, but he's gonna apply himself like fuck from now on. He's _never_ thinking about it again.

* * *

Of course, Jesse can't stop thinking about it.

But it's not like it's even his _fault_. What's he supposed to do? He can't just stop going to meetings, and he can't tell the Misery Magnet to shut the fuck up. Even Ken, who's clearly getting more than a little worried about the whole thing, doesn't want to go that far. And he can see the others are kinda getting into it, this epic story of forbidden love between a hardass gang boss and his gorgeous sex slave. Jesse hears a conversation over the coffee machine about how it should be made into a film and he has to choke back laughter — not because he doesn't agree, but because to him it already _has_ been. A film that plays every time he closes his goddamn eyes.

Is there a support group for that? Maybe if there was, a new meeting where nobody had ever seen him before, he might go. _Hi, my name's Jesse and I have porn dreams about my fifty-year-old chemistry teacher._ And everyone would say 'Hi, Jesse,' and nod with that unsettling mix of shame and anticipation that says _we understand. _So yeah, he'd go to that meeting like a shot. He'd like to meet people who understand, who could explain to him what the fuck is going on here, because he sure as hell doesn't know.

And fuck, it's not like Mr White is even his teacher anymore, so where did that come from? They're partners now. Equals. But of course in the dreams — and fantasies, a part of his mind tries to say, helpfully, but he shuts it down fast — they're not equals at all. Nowhere near. Mr White is the boss, the hardass, and Jesse knows it. Everybody knows it. Even Victor and Gus — Mr White lets them carry on, lets them act like they can call the shots, but they all know what Mr White wants to happen will happen. Immutable fucking laws, and all that. What Mr White wants, Mr White gets. And what he wants, bizarrely and inexplicably, is Jesse.

He wants Jesse naked and on his knees, begging. _I want… Mr White, please… let me…_

_Let you what, Jesse?_

It's said calmly, disinterestedly, as if it's part of a pop quiz — but a crazy simple pop quiz, one that Mr White expects him to know. Not a test but a confirmation._ Let you what, Jesse?_

And Jesse says _Please you_, and Mr White gives him one of those smiles, the ones that are as rare as fucking unicorns, that say Jesse got it right, he did the right thing, he did what Mr White wanted him to do. One of those smiles that light up Mr White's face — that light up fucking _everything_ — and send this warm flush of pleasure right through Jesse's body. It makes him feel light-headed, like the start of the sweetest rush ever, then fills his chest, sits heavy in his stomach and sends a cascade of fucking fireworks into his dick and sets his blood on fire.

And Mr White says _Well done, Jesse_, and everything kind of shorts out and that's it, right there, it's all over.

Jesse kicks the sheet away and covers his eyes with a shaking hand. He's still breathing hard, his chest tight and his throat dry, the sounds forced out of it still ringing in his ears. And he's fucked, he knows it. He's so, so, fucked.

He gets up, showers and dresses quickly. He needs to get to a meeting. He wants to hear the next instalment of the story.

* * *

Walt's noticed that Jesse's been acting strangely, lately.

It's hardly the world's most scientific observation, since _strange_ has an infinite number of subjective definitions, including a lot that are undoubtedly unique to Jesse Pinkman, and it also feels somewhat redundant — when _isn't_ Jesse acting strangely? — but still, Walt finds that he can't put the matter out of his mind.

Perhaps the problem is that he can't quite isolate what the issue _is_. Jesse's not using again, Walt's happy about that: Jesse's been enthusiastically attending his NA meetings, his eyes are clear, and his energy is neither abnormally high nor low. He does seem particularly twitchy, but again, that's hardly outside the norm — Jesse's always been a very _physical _kind of person. But having said that, there's also a new element to that physicality lately; there are times he becomes extremely tense — freezes up, almost — unexpectedly and apparently without discernible cause.

Walt decides this is something he should look into. If there's something going on with Jesse, Walt wants to know about it before it has a chance to escalate. It's easier to prevent trouble than fix it afterwards.

So he pays more attention, watches Jesse more closely. One thing that becomes evident straight away is that Jesse has started drifting off sometimes — deep in thought, Walt would call it, if this wasn't _Jesse_ he was talking about. He might also have called it daydreaming, but that doesn't quite fit either — from the expressions that sometimes flit across Jesse's face, it doesn't seem as if it's an altogether pleasant experience. He's preoccupied with something, there's no doubt about that, but Walt can't yet make an educated guess as to what it might be. He needs more data, needs to carry out more observational studies, before he can come up with a theory.

To that end, he floats the idea of going for a drink, or something to eat, after they've finished cooking. Observing Jesse in a different environment will be useful for comparison purposes. And who knows, maybe a more social context will encourage him to open up. Maybe for once, he'll actually just _tell_ Walt what the problem is. Let him help, rather than waiting for it to blow up in their faces. Maybe.

Or maybe not.

Jesse reacts to his casual suggestion as if Walt's pulled a gun on him. His eyes go wide and he steps backwards, nearly stumbling over his own feet in his apparent haste to put physical distance between himself and the mere thought of it.

It takes Walt by surprise. He didn't expect Jesse to treat the offer like a ticket to the Superbowl, but he didn't expect this level of aversion, either. It definitely seems a little extreme, even for someone with Jesse's volatility.

'A simple no, thanks, would have done,' Walt says mildly.

Jesse stammers something unintelligible but vaguely apologetic and drops his head, but not before Walt sees the flush spreading over his cheeks and down his neck.

Jesse's blushing. Why is Jesse blushing?

'Yeah, no,' Jesse says to the floor. 'That'd be, you know… great and all, but I got… you know, meetings and… stuff. You know.'

Walt nods. He _doesn't_ know; he can't quite read between whatever lines are being drawn — or crossed? — here, but it makes him even more determined than ever to find out.

'Of course,' he says easily. 'Another time, then.'

'Yeah. Sure, yeah, absolutely,' Jesse says enthusiastically, seemingly unaware that he's shaking his head at the same time. The wonders of body language.

And speaking of which… when Walt steps forward, Jesse moves back again, maintaining the distance between them. He also hasn't looked Walt in the eye once during the whole conversation.

Ah. So is Walt himself the source — or at least a contributing factor — of this behaviour? He has no explanation for it — he can't recall anything having changed in their interactions lately — but the evidence is slanting that way. The level of awkwardness on display here is new, and indicates that Jesse is hiding something — something that he feels guilty or at least embarrassed about. If it's not drugs, what is it?

'Jesse,' he says, keeping his voice pitched low — the kind of soothing tone you use on skittish pets. 'If there's something bothering you, if there's any kind of problem, you know you can talk to me, don't you?'

Jesse makes a noise that might be a choked kind of laugh, but he doesn't say anything. He just keeps backing up until there's nowhere left to go. When Walt steps closer again, he does that tense-up-and-freeze thing.

'Jesse,' Walt says, getting concerned now. 'Look at me.'

But Jesse can't. He looks up, but not at Walt. His gaze roams around the lab like a caged animal looking for an exit. He looks as if he's in agony.

'Jesse, what is it?'

Jesse shakes his head. 'Nothing, nothing. It's just… I gotta go, is all.'

It's clearly _not_ all, but Walt knows when pushing is likely to get a result, and when it's not. 'All right then,' he says. 'Good night, Jesse.'

Jesse nods once, quickly and violently, and flees. There's no other way to describe it; he doesn't leave, he _flees_.

Walt takes his time getting his own things together. Has he uncovered new information? Yes. Does he know what it means? No.

Yeah, no. If he were to write a paper on this, it would be titled _Jesse Pinkman: A Study in Contradictions. _

Walt sighs and locks up the lab.


	2. Chapter 2

'_Jesse_,' Mr White says, and something in his tone tells Jesse it's not for the first time. He jumps, turns round and finds Mr White staring at him with his hands on his hips. He's standing very close, and Jesse hears a small, slightly squeaky noise come out of his mouth.

Mr White's been a bit… _intense_ the last couple of days, even more so than usual. It's been like this ever since Jesse… what? Rejected him? Spurned him? Christ, no, don't be ridiculous. He wasn't asking Jesse out on a fucking _date_, was he? He was probably just trying to be friendly, like normal people. Normal people went out for casual drinks with their co-workers, and it wasn't a big deal.

Yeah, no, that's not it either. Mr White isn't normal people. He was probably spying for Gus, or something. That makes more sense. All this weirdness, this strange overlay that Jesse's putting on everything, it's his own fault. No, actually, it's the fucking Misery Magnet's fault. Him and his freaky fucking sex stories that have infected Jesse's brain.

'_Jesse_. Get the sodium hydroxide, for heaven's sake. Don't make me tell you again.'

And oh God, there it is, that line, ripped straight out of those stories. The line that sends shivers through his body and sparks into his brain, that's half excitement and half terror, and an obscenely thrilling promise of both. _Don't make me tell you again._

'I'm sorry, Mr White,' he says, and his lips automatically start to form the rest of it: _I'll do anything you say, anything you want, just tell me. Tell me how to please you. _

He manages not to say it out loud. Thank fuck he's not that far gone, because he'd just have to kill himself on the spot. But Mr White is giving him a strange look, and when Jesse snaps out of it properly he realises, with a kind of appalled terror, that he's hard. He turns away, bending slightly at the waist as if he's in pain — which he actually kind of _is_, his dick aching with a slow, burning throb.

'Jesse? Are you all right?'

'Fine,' he throws over his shoulder, and he can hear that it sounds a bit strangled, but there's nothing he can do about that. It's as much as he can do to form words right now.

Thank _fuck_ for the hazmat suit. He's never loved this hideous but gloriously _baggy_ monstrosity more than he does right now. Because this is bad. This is bad to the nth level of infinity. It's wrong and fucked-up enough to be thinking about this shit in his nightmares — and yes, thank you, he _is_ calling them nightmares, even the ones he has when he's awake — but this isn't a nightmare. This is _real life, _and Mr White is right there, within arms' reach of Jesse and his thankfully invisible boner. At least, he hopes it's invisible. Dear God, it _has_ to be invisible. Because Mr White can't know. Anything else that goes wrong in his fucked-up life, he'll deal with it. But not this. Not this.

A hand comes down on his shoulder — the touch light, almost gentle — and Jesse freezes. Because again, it's so thrillingly familiar. The hand on his shoulder, or his arm, the gentle but firm pressure, the voice that tells him to turn around. This is how it _happens_. And Jesse will do it, he knows he will. He'll do whatever that irresistible voice says, because how can he not? He'll turn around, and there'll be that knowing look in Mr White's eyes, that small, pleased smile playing around the corner of his mouth, and he'll say, _Come here_. And Jesse will go to him, because that's how it works, and Mr White will say _Take off your clothes, Jesse_ in that commanding, don't-even-think-about-fucking-with-me voice.

Jesse's starting to shiver when Mr White speaks, but the words he hears are, 'Are you _sure_ you're all right?' and it breaks the spell.

Jesse jerks out of Mr White's grip, his chest burning almost as much as his dick, because he's forgotten that this isn't going on inside his head, and that means he actually has to breathe. He says, 'Whatever, yo,' and it comes out hoarse and raspy.

Mr White says his name again, but the tone's changed. It's still questioning, but the edge of impatience has been replaced by something that sounds like concern. And something else, something… speculative. It's the note Mr White gets in his voice when the wheels in that big brain are spinning on overdrive, when he's making his plans and working shit out.

Fuck.

And Jesse realises there are levels of bad that go way beyond the nth level of infinity, because Mr White knows. Maybe Jesse gave it away — maybe he didn't turn round quick enough after all, maybe he's been giving off pheromones or something, or maybe it's just because Mr White is the fucking devil. But somehow, he _knows_.

Walt has a theory.

It's an unconventional, unlikely, and somewhat unsettling theory, but maybe the most important kind always are.

He's reviewed the situation and come to the conclusion that it makes sense if you accept a certain premise: namely, that Jesse is attracted to him.

If he keeps an open mind — and he's always prided himself on his ability to do that — then it explains all of Jesse's odd behaviours: the skittishness, the embarrassment, the fear of socialising together, the extreme reactions to Walt's touch and physical presence.

It's unlikely, yes, but it's not impossible. They've been through a lot of intense, highly emotional and adrenaline-charged experiences together, and it's certainly not unknown for the brain to mistake association for cause; if Jesse has become accustomed to having heated feelings when he's _with_ Walt, it's not a huge leap for him to think they're _because_ of Walt. And while Jesse has, to Walt's knowledge, only had heterosexual relationships, that means little. Sexuality is a dial with a lot of different gradations, not a toggle that can only be either/or.

There's the age difference, but that could just as easily be a factor in favour as a factor against. Jesse clearly did not have the most stable of home lives, or a strong male role model. His life so far has lacked both discipline and approval, and those are things Walt is in a position to provide for him.

So yes, it could be that all of these separate elements have combined and distilled into sexual attraction.

Walt's prepared to accept this as a possibility — maybe even a probability. Which then creates a second question: what does he _do_ about it?

He doesn't have the kind of official duty of care towards Jesse that he did when they were teacher and student, but he does have a responsibility, there's no doubt about that. He remembers Donald Margolis, that night in the bar: _Don't give up on family. _

Walt didn't, hasn't, and never intends to. But he'd told Margolis that Jesse was his nephew, which was a lie. Jesse _isn't_ family, not in that sense — which means that all options remain open. If he and Jesse were related, then any kind of sexual relationship would be off the table. But they're not, so it isn't.

Jesse is an adult, no matter how he sometimes acts. He's also clean, and in his right mind — as far as the description could be said to apply. But the salient point is that he's perfectly capable of choosing with whom he wants to have sex. If he's chosen Walt, nobody has the right to deny him that — except, of course, Walt himself.

At which point they hit the tricky third question: what does _Walt_ want?

He wants to do right by Jesse, he can state that much. They _have_ been through a lot together, and Walt's not immune to the effects of all those adrenalin-fuelled adventures either. They're bonded now, and whether Walt entirely understands it or not is irrelevant; he can't deny it, and that's what counts.

He also can't deny that Jesse has suffered due to their association. If he hadn't partnered with Walt, would Jesse have had guns pointed at his head, would he have woken beside a dead girlfriend, would he have been beaten so badly he ended up in hospital? Maybe, yes. He was already in this life, this business, beforehand; it might have all played out the same way.

But equally, it might not.

So Walt would rather not make things any worse, if he can avoid it. He never _wanted_ anyone — Jesse, Skyler, Hank, Jane, her father — to get hurt. He's not a monster. He even felt sorry about firing Gale, for heaven's sake. It felt like kicking a puppy.

He'd make it up to them if he could. God knows he's tried, with Skyler, but he simply can't work out the right way. If he knew what to say, what to do, he would. And while he can't take back what happened to Hank, he can pay for his physiotherapy. He can do that, at least.

So what can he do for Jesse?

It's a good question. Walt will need to give it some serious consideration.

Ken's trying to get someone — anyone other than Terence — to talk. 'Jesse,' he says, 'how's your job? In the Laundromat?'

Jesse nods. 'It's okay, yeah. They got it set up real sweet, like, state-of-the-art, and I've been learning how to operate all the equipment and stuff. And the people I work with, they're, uh, pretty interesting, I guess.'

Ken lights up. He gives Jesse a big smile and looks really pleased, and Jesse folds under an automatic pang of guilt for a second or so before it strikes him that he's not actually lying. He shifts in his seat and gives Ken a small, nervous smile in return.

And why not? _Nervous_ is pretty much his middle name lately. It's driving him crazy, waiting for Mr White to say something, do something — waiting for him to freak out, laugh, rip Jesse a new one, fire him, whatever. Just _something_. But so far, all Mr White's done is just kinda _look_ at him, and now Jesse's the one freaking out. If Mr White's taking this long to come up with his response, it's gonna be _nuclear_.

'That's good, Jesse,' Ken says. 'I'm glad to hear that. And your boss? What's he like? Do you get on okay?'

Jesse hooks a hand round the back of his neck and rubs it up into his hair. 'Oh, you know, he's… yeah, it's… he's really… you know.' He looks round and nods a few times, hoping they won't notice he never formed a complete sentence. He gets a few nods in return, so maybe it worked.

And then Suzy looks at Terence and says, 'So, Terence, what happened next?'

Ken sighs and leans back in his chair, while everyone else leans forward. Including Jesse, because he's glad to have the spotlight taken off himself. And, yeah, because he kinda wants to know too.

Terence continues his story with relish, his voice lowering into a rumbling, compelling rhythm. Jesse lets it lull him, carry him into the story — lets it fill the space behind his closed eyes with images of the steely-eyed man Terence calls _Nietzsche_ issuing orders and expecting immediate obedience. A man who says, in a deceptively quiet voice, things like _Do as you're told,_ and _Get on your knees_, and _Don't make me tell you_ _again_. And he thinks about the kind of man who would reply _Of course_, and _I'll do anything you want_ and _Yes. Yes. Yes_.

Jesse ducks out as soon as the meeting winds up, and goes straight home. The first thing he does — well, no, to be honest, the _second_ thing he does — is dig out his old sketchbook. His pencil flies across the paper like it hasn't done in years, pulling the images of Terence and Nietzsche out of his head and onto the page. Swift, smooth strokes giving them form, shape, energy. Bringing them to life.

He finally falls asleep at three o'clock in the morning, the pencil dropping from numb fingers and rolling under the bed.

In his dreams, the sensuous lines of his drawings writhe and twist, continually pulling apart and coming back together, like the pieces of a perfect puzzle.

In the morning, when he wakes and looks at the results of his feverish burst of creativity, he barely recognises his own work. He does, however, recognise the faces of the two men involved.

Jesse rips the pages out of the book and throws them in the trash. Later, he considers going back out and getting them out again, but he doesn't.

He has a feeling he might end up drawing some more.

Walt goes home and considers Jesse Pinkman.

On an objective, aesthetic basis, Walt can't deny that Jesse is an attractive man. Good bone structure, a lithe body — as far as Walt can make out under all those baggy layers, at least — hair that glows with the richness of warm honey when the light hits it just right, and the most intense blue eyes Walt's ever seen. He can imagine being mesmerised by those eyes, can imagine running his fingers through that hair, maybe even nuzzling his cheek against it. It's surprising to him, how easy the exercise proves to be; the images leap into his mind quicker and smoother than he might have expected.

Jesse's smile, too, can be unexpectedly disarming. Not so much the smirk, which is — along with the bristling attitude and ridiculous outfits — simply part of his defensive armour, but the genuine, open smile that, when glimpsed, reflects a kind of pure joy that Walt, if he's honest, isn't sure he's ever felt.

Walt also has to admit that Jesse's energy, his enthusiasm, comes with a certain appeal. It also creates a certain… friction, because things do not always — often? ever? — go smoothly when Jesse is involved, but that's not automatically a bad thing. Walt's spent the last twenty years of his life thinking that things were going smoothly, and he's only recently realised that's not automatically a _good_ thing. Smooth might not be a perfect synonym for _stagnant_, but it's not far off.

He thinks of Gale, and how easily — how smoothly — they worked together. How Gale tried so hard to fit in with him, to follow his lead, to make sure there were no problems. No _friction_. How perfect an assistant Gale was, and how devastated he'd looked when Jesse had bowled into the lab that day. How confused. The question Gale never voiced had nevertheless been clear in his eyes: you choose _him_ over _me_?

Walt had looked away, his silence speaking for him. He'd felt embarrassed for poor Gale, not least because Jesse had been unable to resist rubbing it in: his insouciant, lazy smile, the way he'd slapped Walt's arm, the exaggerated groans of pleasure he'd let out upon viewing the equipment. It'd been a territorial display, plain and simple. Making sure Gale knew his role was being taken — no, taken _back_ — by Jesse. That it all belonged to Jesse. The job. The lab. Walt.

Gale had directed that hurt, bewildered gaze at Walt — _are you going to let this happen?_ — and all Walt had been able to offer was a tiny shrug. Because, yes. Yes, he was. And he'd tried to make it look apologetic, as if he was sorry, and he thought Gale had believed it. Walt hoped so — lying is an essential part of the new skill set he's cultivating — but it wasn't true. He'd known it then, and he knows it now. He hadn't been sorry to have Jesse back, and already causing trouble, at all. He'd been energised. Excited.

Aroused?

He thinks back to those groans Jesse had made, how they'd reverberated throughout the lab, electrifying the air. Exaggerated to make a point, yes. But had Walt wondered, however fleetingly, about Jesse making those sounds under different circumstances? Had that happened?

It's possible. Yes, it's possible he might have thought about that.

Walt thinks about it again now, deliberately and consciously. He thinks about cupping Jesse's cheek in his palm, then sliding that hand around the back of his neck and pulling him closer. Pulling him in for a kiss.

It would start soft, no more than the gentle pressure of their lips together. Jesse would be still, but this time it would be the stillness of welcome anticipation, not anxiety. He'd feel comfortable. Secure. Safe. That's all Walt's ever wanted: to make sure the people who matter to him are _safe_. He wishes they could see that.

Skyler seems more and more like a lost cause, in that respect. Whatever he says, whatever he does, Walt simply can't make her understand. He'll always look out for her, of course, and they need to present a united front on the business side of things, but the relationship is starting to feel beyond redemption. They haven't been happy — certainly not _intimately_ so — in a long time. So in that sense, his marriage is no barrier to a… _progression_ in his relationship with Jesse. It wouldn't even be cheating.

Walt decides to take a shower, and give the matter some further consideration. He's had some of his best ideas, his breakthroughs, in the shower. The soothing, rhythmic action of soaping and rinsing the skin becomes meditative; a way to quell the constant scratching of the higher cognitive processes and let the subconscious prevail. Let it communicate.

Walt quickly discovers that his subconscious wants to communicate its approval of this particular cognitive process. It provides him with a startlingly vivid image of Jesse as soon as he closes his eyes, and a startlingly instant erection to follow.

Interesting.

Walt notes the reaction and continues soaping and rinsing, losing himself in the sensations of skin on skin, of his hands moving over his body. He imagines Jesse's hands there instead, and is rewarded with a jolt of pleasure. He imagines Jesse in front of him, divested of all those protective layers, his skin glistening with water. He wonders how it would feel to run his hands — his lips — over Jesse's body. Over the planes and angles of his shoulder blades and hipbones, over the flatness of his abdomen and the slick, hard length of his cock.

Walt's breath comes faster as his heart rate picks up, the sound of his own pulse echoing in his ears. He wonders what it would be like to taste Jesse, to use not just his hands and lips but his tongue, and his heart slams harder in his chest. He imagines looking up, seeing Jesse's head thrown back against the tiles, those ridiculously blue eyes glazed with pleasure. He imagines Jesse saying something inarticulate as he stiffens and shudders, then looking down at Walt with that glorious, breath-stealing smile, and then he can't imagine anything else because everything is short-circuiting and cutting out and there's nothing but white noise and a long, hoarse sound that Walt is only dimly aware of making.

The water runs cold long before Walt feels able to move again. Eventually, he gets himself out of the shower and wrapped in a towel, then goes to lie down for a while.

All in all, he'd have to call the experiment a success.


	3. Chapter 3

The next meeting starts out as normal, with Terence being the first to share. That's what they've come to expect, but what he tells them, this time? Is anything but.

Jesse looks around the rest of the group and sees mirroring expressions of shock and outrage. He's never felt so betrayed in his _life_.

Only Ken sits motionless in his chair, his arms folded and his face composed. 'Go on, Terence,' he says.

Terence hunches over, his head bowed. 'I'm sorry, man. I never thought… I never meant…'

'It wasn't true?' Suzy says, the disbelief evident in her trembling voice. 'It wasn't real?'

Terence shifts in his seat. He can't look at her. 'I'm sorry,' he whispers. 'I just thought it'd be… that you guys, you were…'

He trails off, and there's silence in the room.

'A captive audience?' Ken offers.

Jesse wouldn't have thought Terence could hang his head any further without breaking his neck, but apparently he's wrong about that. But then, Jesse being wrong about things isn't exactly news.

Terence runs a hand over his close-cropped hair and looks wretched. 'Yeah. I guess. But I just wanted to talk to people who'd _listen_. Because nobody else — agents, producers, the studios — none of them would.'

Terence, it turns out, isn't a reformed drug addict, biker gang member, and sex slave. He's a screenwriter. But he did at least write the script for the DVD Jesse saw at Badger's that time. So he's not a plagiarist, at least.

'So… it never happened?' Suzy says. 'None of it?'

Terence shakes his head. 'No,' he says. His voice is fogged with misery. 'It never happened.'

There's a long silence. Terence finally lifts his head and looks around at the group. 'I guess I should go.'

'I think that's for the best,' Ken says.

Terence stands up and starts to shuffle towards the door. When he looks back, Jesse meets his gaze. 'It was a good story, man,' he says quietly.

One by one, the others start to nod. 'It was,' Suzy says. 'It was a real good story.'

Terence's throat works, and when he says, 'Thanks,' his voice is hoarse. He hesitates, then adds, 'I'll, er, be over in the coffee shop for a while. If anyone wants to, you know, hang out or anything.'

Ken rubs a hand over his eyes. 'Okay,' he says, when Terence has gone. 'Anyone else have anything they want to share?'

Nobody does.

Jesse glances at the door. 'I think I might go get a coffee before I bounce, yo. Seeing as it's early, and all.'

'I was just thinking that,' Suzy says casually, and there are few variations on 'Yeah, me too,' that follow.

'We have coffee here,' Ken says, a little plaintively, but the room's already emptying out.

In the end, it's only Ken and a new girl — Anthea? Andrea? — who never heard the beginning of the story, that don't head over to the Starbucks opposite.

Jesse shrugs. Their loss.

Terence looks overcome as they manhandle a bunch of tables and chairs into a loose semicircle around him. 'You guys,' he says. 'You're the best.'

The door opens, and another chair is hauled across the floor. 'What?' Ken says, when they all turn to look at him. 'I'm still human. Just because I don't approve of Terence's deception, doesn't mean I don't want to know how it ends.'

Jesse grins and scoots his chair over to make room for him. Terence takes a sip of his latte, then starts to talk.

When he finishes, twenty minutes later, Jesse's coffee has gone cold. He blinks at it, then at Terence. Then at everyone else in the little huddle.

'Dude,' he finally says. 'That's a _terrible_ ending. It was all a dream? Seriously? That's what you're going with?'

Terence looks stung. 'He wasn't dreaming, he was suffering from drug-induced psychosis created by his damaged brain in its semi-catatonic state.'

'He wakes up, and it never happened. That's a dream, dude.'

Terence looks around for support, and gets none.

'I have to agree it's not the most narratively satisfying conclusion,' Ken says.

'If that means it sucks great hairy donkey balls, I agree as well,' Suzy says. She shakes her head. 'No way, man. Not after all they went through. You don't leave it like that.'

Terence mumbles something. It sounds like _Everyone's a critic_.

He sighs. 'All right. Let me think about it. But it's going to mean a complete thematic overhaul. I was trying to make a point about the nihilistic tendencies inherent in—'

'I think your target audience care more about the story and the characters than the philosophical underpinnings,' Ken says gently.

Suzy nods. 'And the sex and violence. We care about that, as well.'

There are a lot more nods. Terence sighs again.

'I want to know what happens to the lawyer,' Suzy says. 'I like him. He's funny.'

Another round of nods, another sigh from Terence. 'I don't know,' he says. 'I never thought that far. A script can only have so many pages, you know? And nobody wants this one. Nobody wants to produce it.'

'Can't you do it yourself?' Jesse says. 'Not, like, a film or anything, but couldn't you turn it into a book? How much can that cost, to make a book?'

'It's not that simple,' Terence says. 'I could rewrite it in prose form, sure, but you can't just do it all yourself. You need a publisher.'

'So get one.'

'Also not that simple. This kind of story isn't exactly mainstream, so there aren't going to be many publishing houses interested. It doesn't fit neatly into a commercial genre, you know?'

'No,' Jesse says. 'But I know you got people who wanna read it. Or have it read to them, whatever. So there's money in it, and that means someone's gonna want to make a deal.'

Terence doesn't look convinced, but Jesse remembers Saul, and the nail salon he tried to get Jesse to buy, and that speech about legitimate sources of taxable income.

'Let me make a call,' Jesse says.

Saul flips open the laptop with a flourish.

'What am I looking at?' Jesse says, and then he sees the banner at the top of the website: _Pink and Blue Publishing_.

'Oh, wow,' he says. 'Is this it? It's done?'

'It's done,' Saul confirms. 'What do you think of the name? Pink and blue, to show we cater to the dudes and the ladies — and everyone in between, of course, you never want to ignore a customer demographic — with a nod to you as proprietor, and a tiny, sly, blink-and-you-miss-it nod to the, uh, parent industry, as it were. I came up with it myself,' he adds proudly.

'It's great,' Jesse says, meaning it. The site looks way cool — rows of book covers, pages for biographies of the authors, a shopping cart — even if it's all fake, it looks awesome. Saul's hacker guy did a sweet job.

Saul beams and claps him on the back. 'I gotta say, kid, I never expected you to have your finger quite so firmly on the pulse of the techno-cultural zeitgeist, but there you go. Working with you is never-ending parade of surprises.'

'The techno what?' Jesse says.

Saul leans over his shoulder, admiring the screen. 'Ebooks, my friend. Electronic books, downloaded online to the portable reading device of your pleasure. If I know those in the know, and I think you'll agree I do, then what we're looking at is the wave of the future.'

Jesse waits. At some point, Saul will have to start speaking English, right?

Saul taps a perfectly manicured fingernail against the screen. 'What we have here is a golden, untapped sales opportunity — which, combined with some judicious creative coding to inflate the number of aggregate downloads and thereby filter in some of your surplus external income — will make our baby here a flourishing example of web-based success not seen since the days of the dot com boom.'

He fixes Jesse with a serious expression. 'You know what I'm talking about, don't you?'

'No,' Jesse says, with complete honesty.

Saul puts an arm around his shoulders and squeezes. Jesse squirms.

'Porn!' Saul exclaims. 'That's what these things —' he breaks off and takes a flat grey rectangle out of his desk drawer and waves it at Jesse — 'Kindles, were made for. Reading porn. Look at it—' he waves it again — 'you could be reading _War and Peace_ or _Horny Housewives in Heat Volume Twenty-Four_, and who's gonna know? Nobody, that's who. Commuting to work, babysitting, visiting senile old Uncle Ethelbert — all those people, all those customers, can now put that previously lost time to good use by reading porn.' He squeezes Jesse again. '_Our_ porn.'

Saul flops down in his chair, seemingly spent. 'Which basically all goes to say, well done, kid. It was a great idea.'

Jesse grins, unable to stop the swell of pride. Even if it's only _Saul_ saying it, it still sounds good.

'So these books,' he says, 'are they real?'

'Oh, yeah. They're real. We bought out a small publishing house and took over their backlist, so we'd have some inventory to open with. We also transferred the contracts of a few in-house writers, so there's more on the way. It's novellas, by the way — short books, like thirty thousand words or so — that's the thing. People gobble those things up, pardon the expression, and come right back for more. We're also taking open submissions, to see what the freelancers can do. I've had Francesca helping me with the slush pile, and it's been, hoo, an educational experience.'

'And what about Terence?'

Saul snaps his fingers. 'Sure, yeah, the hardcore M/M BDSM crime thriller series. We're all over that.'

Jesse's just about given up on understanding more than a third of what's coming out of Saul's mouth right now, so he just nods and takes the sheaf of closely typed paper that Saul slides across to him.

'Early indications from the focus group are that there's a surprisingly large audience out there — we're getting pre-orders for the first volume already — so we need him to sign this contract and deliver the rest of the manuscript for proofing by Friday.'

Jesse eyes the contract. 'Is it legit?'

Saul gives him a wounded look. 'It pays him a tiny advance, a microscopic royalty rate, takes any and all subsidiary rights for us to exploit in perpetuity, has draconian penalty clauses, provides us with complete power over the title, cover art, price, author branding and marketing strategy, and is pretty much indecipherable unless you have a degree in intellectual property law. It's a perfect publishing contract, ripped off straight from the big New York houses.'

Jesse shrugs and grabs it. No doubt Terence will know what all that stuff means.

He starts to get up, then stops. 'Hey. Did you say cover art?'

'Yeah. Why? You want to model?' Saul gives him an appraising look. 'We could probably do worse.'

'What? No, Saul, I don't want to be _on_ the cover, I want to _draw_ it.'

'Oh. Well, sure. Why not? It's your company, kid. You can do what you like. Put something together, and I'll get it scanned. Oh, and before I forget, ask your guy if he can do vampires.'

'If he can what?'

'Do vampires. The focus group says the only thing hotter than hardcore M/M BDSM crime thrillers are hardcore M/M BDSM crime thrillers with vampires. There's got to be a way to work that in, what with all the Mexican, Santa Muerte, Day of the Dead stuff, right? Say this Nietzsche guy ends up having a big gun battle with a drug cartel — no, hold on, make that a rival gang of Neo-Nazis, everybody loves seeing Nazis get machine-gunned — and when it's all over and the smoke clears, he's lying there and he's dying, because he knew he had to sacrifice himself to save the life of his young lover, obviously, and boom, everybody's shocked and there's not a dry eye in the house. And then, because something something Santa Muerte — we'll work on that bit — he comes back as a vampire. I'm telling you, sequel sales would go through the roof.'

'Vampires,' Jesse says, making a note on the back of the contract. 'Got it.'

He's not sure what Terence will think — none of this stuff sounds like it's got much in the way of philosophical underlinings, or whatever it was Ken said — but Jesse's got to admit, it does sound pretty cool. He'd read the _fuck_ out of that story.

'_Walt_,' Skyler snaps. 'Are you even listening to me?'

Walt jerks his head away from where it had been resting on the passenger side window and surreptitiously wipes any incriminating drool from the corner of his mouth.

'Absolutely,' he says. 'Yes, I am. And you're right, of course.'

He has no idea what Skyler was saying, but he does know she's unlikely to argue with that response.

'Okay then,' she says, looking mollified. 'I'm glad you see that.'

Walt blinks the bleariness out of his eyes and notices they're parked opposite the car wash. Ah. This again. He fights hard against the urge to yawn.

How is he supposed to get excited about a car wash? Or a laser tag, or a beauty salon, or whatever else Saul had on the list? It's just a front, so what does it matter? It has nothing to do with his real business, his real life. He thinks about saying _Whatever, yo_, and can't stop the smile from pulling at his lips. Skyler gives him a strange look, but doesn't say anything.

Walt watches as the cars roll in, and the cars roll out. Skyler scribbles figures in her notebook, frowning intently. Walt hides another yawn.

'Do you have enough, now?' he asks, nodding at her book. 'I need to get to work soon, and I want to get ready.' He's been looking forward to taking a shower, before he hits the lab.

Skyler gives him another unreadable look. 'How ready do you have to be, to cook meth? I thought you had protective clothing?'

Walt winces a little at her bluntness. It's hard to get used to. 'We do,' he says. 'But I don't want to bring contaminants into the lab. It's practically a sterile environment.'

'You'll be fine,' Skyler says, and goes back to her notebook.

In the end, Walt has to leave her there and take a cab to the Laundromat. He decides coffee will have to take the place of a shower, and makes the driver stop off on the way. It occurs to him while he's waiting in line that he doesn't know what Jesse likes, so he tries to cover most bases with an espresso, a plain black filter coffee, a latte and a chocolate frappuccino. He also gets a cinnamon roll, a banana nut muffin and two slices of toasted fruit bread.

Jesse regards this bounty with wide eyes. 'We expecting company?'

'No,' Walt says. 'I just wasn't sure what you'd want.'

'You got all this for me?'

Walt nods, unsure as to why Jesse seems surprised. 'Why wouldn't I?'

'Uh, no reason, I guess. It's just that you never usually, you know.' He shrugs. 'Think about me.'

Walt snorts some of the filter coffee out of his nose. 'Never think about you,' he says, gasping slightly. That's funny.

Jesse doesn't seem to agree. He looks slightly alarmed. 'Uh, Mr White? Are you okay?'

Walt wipes his eyes. 'I'm fine, thank you, Jesse. Please, help yourself.'

Jesse eyes the cups and bags as if they might bite. 'I don't really like coffee that much,' he says.

'No coffee,' Walt says, nodding. He'll remember that. 'I'll get you something else, next time.' And maybe it's just as well, if he keeps the drinks for himself. He could use the caffeine.

'Are you _sure_ you're all right?'

Walt takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. 'I'm fine, yes. I just… I haven't been sleeping all that well lately.'

Jesse's brows draw together slightly. 'Oh. It's not, uh…' he makes a vague gesture in Walt's direction. 'Is it?'

Walt blinks at him. It's not… what?

Not the way his thoughts constantly turn and circle and chase one another, trying to formulate the best method of approaching this and failing, because he hasn't tried to initiate sex with anyone other than Skyler in more years than he cares to remember, and he's worried he's forgotten how?

Not the anxiety that's starting to creep in because he'd thought he understood what was going on, and how it would play out, and yet it so far hasn't turned out to be as easy and straightforward — as controllable — as he'd expected?

Not the uncomfortable sensation of having taken a confident stride into what he thought was shallow water, only to find himself rapidly getting out of his depth?

Not the constant erotic dreams that keep pulling him into wakefulness, hard and aching?

Not all of the above?

Jesse's alarmed look grows stronger, and Walt belatedly realises what he's talking about. 'No, no, it's not the cancer. It's not back. I'm still in remission.'

Jesse blows out a long breath and punches Walt in the arm. It hurts. 'Fuck, Mr White, don't _do_ that to me. The way you were spacing out on me there, I thought something was really wrong.'

_It is_, Walt wants to say. _We were supposed to be having sex by now. The schedule has been completely blown to hell. _

He doesn't say it.

Maybe it's his fault. Maybe he miscalculated. Maybe he even misread the situation from the start.

Because he'd expected Jesse to be more receptive than this — to read the signs himself, and at least _help_ to move the process forward. But instead, Jesse's been preoccupied — and not in that dreamy, fantasising-about-you way.

He's been efficient and attentive to the _work_, Walt can't fault him on that — although he's tried, a couple of times; unfairly, yes, but damn it, Walt just wanted a _response_. Wanted to reassure himself that Jesse was still there, still with him, rather than exclusively caught up in whatever else it is that's laid claim to his time and attention.

Walt doesn't know what that is, but he has noticed that Jesse seems to be having a lot more contact with Saul lately.

Walt freezes.

Surely, no. Jesse and Saul? No. No, that's not it. It can't be. Walt's prepared to consider that his observational-analytical skills might be a little rustier than he thought, but he can't have been _that_ far off.

Can he?


	4. Chapter 4

As Jesse suspected, Terence _hates_ the vampire idea. He hands in a manuscript because he's under contract, and because Huell threatens to break his fingers if he doesn't, but it's not his best work.

Jesse takes it to Saul, who reads it with an increasingly sour expression.

'This is not good,' he says. 'This is not in character, it's not plausible, and worst crime of all, it's not _hot_. This is not up to the standards our readers expect. Where's the sex? It's okay for Nietzsche and the kid to be in conflict, that's good drama, everybody knows that, but they should be having hate sex while they're doing it. Then they should have tender apology sex, and angry can't-live-without-you sex, and frantic we're-all-going-to-die sex, and superhumanly acrobatic vampire sex, and—'

'I thought we were saving that for the sequel?'

Saul rubs his chin. 'Huh, yeah, you're right.' He puts a line through the last note he made on the manuscript. 'Hold the acrobatics, okay. But the rest of it? It's all gotta be re-done.'

He pushes the pile of paper back at Jesse. 'Tell Terence he needs to fix this, and the deadline just moved up. Emphasis on the dead.'

'Um,' Jesse says.

Saul fixes him with a look. 'Um, what?'

'Terence kind of… skipped town.'

'What? He can't do that. He has obligations. We have a contract.'

'Yeah, but I don't think that means we get to put him under house arrest.'

Saul's expression doesn't change. 'Did you _read_ that contract?'

Jesse holds out his hands. 'It doesn't matter what it says, yo. Terence's gone. He's not even Terence any more.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well… he told me he was writing a side project for some guy — he's like Terence's fifteenth uncle five times removed, or something, and he's stuck in a wheelchair in some nursing home, and I guess he doesn't get to do much except listen to books. So Terence wrote him this thing — he said it was a torture-porn revenge thriller — and in return the old guy hooked him up with someone who gets people new papers — like, new name, new passport, everything. It's like, you phone up and pretend you want a vacuum cleaner repaired, and—'

'Son of a bitch,' Saul says. 'That's supposed to be _my_ guy. Damn. You can't trust anyone these days.'

He shakes his head sadly, then sits up straight again. 'Well, there's nothing for it. We're just going to have to do it ourselves.'

There's a noise outside the door, but Jesse ignores it in favour of staring at Saul in disbelief. 'What? Me and you?'

'Sure. Why not? Come on, kid. It's just sex. It's not like this is something new to you.'

'No, but _that_ is,' Jesse says, gesturing helplessly at the manuscript, which barely has an inch of space that isn't covered by red squiggles. He's been doing pretty well with the covers — dark silhouettes of muscular figures against vibrant desert landscapes — but he doesn't know how to _write._

'You hung around with Terence enough, you must have picked up some tips. How hard can it be?'

Saul uncaps his pen, turns to page one of the manuscript and starts to read. 'I want you to get on your knees right now, bitch, and suck my—'

The door bursts open, and there's a flurry of movement behind them. The manuscript pages go flying everywhere and Saul is suddenly pinned to his chair with a fist aimed at his face.

Saul makes a high-pitched sound and Jesse jumps to his feet.

'What the hell?' Jesse says. 'Mr _White_?'

Mr White looks from Saul to Jesse and back again. His fist slowly lowers and unclenches, and he steps back. 'Um,' he says.

Saul's eyebrows are a millimetre from his hairline. 'Walter? Is there a problem here? Or were you just passing, and thought you'd burst in and randomly threaten your lawyer with physical violence?'

Mr White purses his lips, looks at the paper scattered all over the desk, and the_ Pink and Blue Publishing_ website on Saul's laptop. Then he looks at Jesse, on the other side of Saul's desk.

'No,' he says finally. 'No problem.'

Then he turns round and walks out. He even shuts the door quietly behind him.

'What the hell was that about?' Jesse says.

Saul shakes his head, but he looks amused. 'You guys,' he says. 'You kill me.'

Jesse glances at the door again. Should he go after Mr White? He doesn't know what's gone wrong between him and Saul, but Mr White _did_ look really freaked out. Maybe Jesse can help with something? It's not like Mr White hasn't done stuff for him, after all. And that's real-life stuff, without even getting into the fantasies that—

'Come on, kid,' Saul says, bending down and gathering up the loose papers from the floor, 'help me out here. We got deadlines, remember? You don't want to leave our faithful readers hanging, do you?'

Jesse shoots a last look at the door, but Mr White must gone by now. And there probably isn't anything he'd want Jesse to do for him, anyway.

'_Jesse_. Come on, chop chop.'

Jesse sighs, gets on his knees, and starts helping.

He plans to check in with Mr White later, but he and Saul end up pulling an all-nighter, trying to get the story back on track. Jesse's not a good typist, so he paces around the office improvising scenes while Saul transcribes them on the laptop.

The big roadblock is that in the last volume, terrifying gang boss Nietzsche and his lover — Terence named the character after Ken, which Jesse thought was kinda sweet, but Saul said Ken was a name for librarians and not sexy criminal bikers, so now he's called Axe — had a terrible fight and nearly killed one another, after Axe found out that Nietzsche had betrayed him to the Neo-Nazi gang. It was a shocking twist, and the reviews have been awesome. Everyone's waiting to see how they get back together.

But in the ending that Terence's written, they don't. Nietzsche's gang all die when their clubhouse catches fire due to faulty electrics in their pinball machine. The Nazi gang all die from food poisoning after barbecuing some badly-refrigerated chicken. Axe slips in the shower and breaks his neck, and Nietzsche retires from the criminal underworld, goes on a skiing holiday and gets buried in an avalanche. Even the funny lawyer gets prostate cancer.

Saul is disgusted. 'Rocks fall, everyone dies,' he says, shaking his head. 'Second only to It Was All A Dream in the Super-Sucky-Endings stakes. This guy can't write a proper finale to save his life. There's no sex, and no vampires. What is this, amateur hour? No way can we work with this.'

So he and Jesse throw it all out, and start over.

'Okay,' Saul says. 'So Axe hates Nietzsche, and vice versa. They just tried to kill each other. How do we get them back to the sex?'

Jesse thinks about it. 'Nietzsche wouldn't have betrayed Axe,' he says. 'He wouldn't do that, not for real. So there must have been a secret plan.'

Saul's eyes light up. 'Of course,' he breathes. 'That's it. It wan't real. They just pretended to fight, so that Axe can infiltrate the other gang and they won't suspect it's a set-up until it's too late and they've all been turned into Nietzsche's vampire minions. It's perfect. Kid, you're a genius.'

Jesse's not sure he's earned quite that level of praise, but he's not going to argue.

He acts out the secret reunion scene, where Nietzsche is horrified at seeing Axe all beaten up, and he hugs Axe and tells him how bad he feels for hurting him, and Axe is all long-suffering and noble and shit, and says he knows Nietzsche wouldn't have done it if there was any other way. And Nietzsche breaks down, and he's crushing Axe to his chest like he's never gonna let him go, and he tells Axe that he's sorry, he's sorry for everything he's put him through, and Axe says he's not, he's not sorry, because if it hadn't happened then they wouldn't have got together, and as long as they get to _stay_ together, it'll all be worth it. And Nietzsche bows his head, and he's biting his lip because he can't speak, but it's okay because Axe totally knows what he's trying to say, and he leans against Nietzsche's chest, and he says, _Me too_.

The clatter of Saul's fingers on the keyboard dies away, and when Jesse looks over he sees Saul grab a tissue out of the box he keeps for clients, and blow his nose.

'That was a thing of beauty,' Saul says, his voice thick. 'Kid, you got a gift for this shit. Fuck Terence, you're our new star author.'

He chucks the tissue in the waste basket, opens a new document on the laptop and flexes his fingers. 'Right, on to the next chapter. So how do we bring in the vampires?'

It's still dark out when Walt arrives at the Laundromat, the buildings deserted and the machines silent. Since he can't sleep, he might as well try and do something useful. Maybe he can start working a night shift, and get everything done before Jesse arrives. Then he can give Jesse the days off, and let him go back to his new business. His new business that apparently involves writing soft porn with Saul Goodman.

_I want you to get on your knees right now, bitch, and suck my—_

Walt shakes himself. If he ever wants to sleep again at any point in his life, he needs to get that memory out of his head. He doesn't want to think about those words in Saul's mouth. He doesn't want to think about _anything_ in Saul's mouth.

He fires up the lights and grabs his clipboard and checklist. He can't understand why Jesse didn't come to him, if he was thinking about exploring new opportunities. Especially this kind: shouldn't it be obvious to Jesse that Walt has a _much_ bigger vocabulary than Saul Goodman? He has no doubt he could write very fine erotica if he put his mind to it. It's a fallacy, that scientists can't be creative; Walt has certainly thought up some very creative scenarios recently. He's sure Jesse's readers would have been entertained.

Walt spends a while entertaining himself with these scenarios until he realises that his head start on the work is slipping away. He sighs, pulls on his rubber gloves and sets to scrubbing the tanks. Menial work, yes — the kind he might once have considered a waste of his intellectual superiority. But right now, he doesn't feel intellectually superior at all.

He feels like a fool.

In truth, he doesn't think he's ever felt this much of a fool in his life. Not even when he calculated, to the penny, how much his shares in Grey Matter would have been worth if he hadn't traded them in for a handful of beans. That came close, definitely, but no; this is worse. Being a fool about money is one thing — he's a scientist, so he's supposed to be above vulgar venality anyway. But being a fool over a man half his age? That's something else entirely.

He'd told himself he was only doing this for Jesse, that it was purely about what Jesse needed, and how Walt could keep him from going off the rails. That engaging in a sexual relationship would be, effectively, an act that fell somewhere between altruism and good business practice. It was a smart, rational and pragmatic decision.

But somehow — and Walt still can't identify exactly how or when this happened — he's managed to ruin it all by having _feelings_.

Walt groans. He's a _damn_ fool. An old damn fool who ought to know better, acting like a jealous teenager unable to see beyond the end of his own hormones.

He came within a hair's breadth of punching Saul Goodman in the face, for heaven's sake. And the worst of it is, if what he'd thought was happening in that office _had_ been happening, he would have done it. He would have punched Saul into next week, if he'd been making Jesse do something he didn't want to do. (And if Jesse _had_ wanted to do it? Well, Walt thinks he might just have gone ahead and punched Saul anyway.) Walt shakes his head. _Feelings_. This was most definitely not part of the plan.

He's just about finished with the cleaning when he sees it: a huge, black, bristly housefly, rubbing its disgusting feelers all over the newly-scrubbed surface of the tank.

Walt freezes, staring at it. It stares back.

He brings the flat of his hand down fast and hard against the metal, but when he lifts it again all he's achieved is a sharp stinging pain in his palm. The fly is gone.

'I see,' he says. 'Like that, is it?'

The fly buzzes at him. Insolently.

It's maybe three or four hours later when he hears the lab door open, and he races up the stairs.

'Yo, Mr White,' Jesse is saying. He's carrying a coffee cup and has a bag tucked under one arm. 'I got some of that fruit bread you liked. I thought—'

'Get inside,' Walt says, 'and shut the door. _Now_, Jesse.'

Jesse hesitates for a second, but then whirls round and slams the door shut. When he turns back, his eyes are wide. 'Mr White? What's going on?'

The fly, of course, takes the opportunity to hover above Walt's head. '_That_,' he says, stabbing his finger at it.

'A fly?'

'A contaminant. An unexpected, unwanted and unplanned-for variable, introduced into a carefully controlled and calibrated process. It cannot be allowed.'

'It's a fly, Mr White.'

'It is an unacceptable deviation from a perfect plan,' Walt says. The fly shoots back down into the main lab. He charges back down the stairs after it, but loses it at the bottom. He growls in frustration.

Jesse follows at a slower pace, and puts the coffee and bakery bag down on the side. 'Yo, have you been here all night?'

'Not _all_ night,' Walt says.

'Maybe you should come and have something to eat. You know low blood sugar makes you cranky.'

'I am not _cranky_, and this is not a question of blood sugar,' Walt snaps. 'It's not about biology. We are more than the sum of our enzymes and hormones, for heaven's sake. We are thinking, reasoning creatures and we are not, I repeat not, under the control of ridiculous physical or emotional whims. Am I making myself clear?'

'Got it. You're not cranky.' Jesse pulls off a corner of the toasted fruit bread and pops it into his mouth. A swipe of melted butter makes his lips glisten. 'Sure you don't want a piece of this?'

Walt's breath constricts in his throat, and he coughs to try and re-establish the flow of oxygen. He should definitely do more cardiovascular exercise. Chasing this fly has clearly taken more of a toll than it should.

Jesse starts forward, a concerned expression on his face, but Walt waves him off. 'I'm fine,' he says. 'I just need to deal with this godforsaken insect. I refuse to be… _disrupted_ in this manner.'

'Okay,' Jesse says. He holds the bag of fruit bread open, and the fly crawls inside.

Jesse scrunches the bag shut again, then looks at Walt and grins. 'You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, Mr White. Nobody ever tell you that?'

When Walt just stares at him, Jesse shrugs and takes the bag outside.


	5. Chapter 5

_Nihilistic Tendencies_, the final book in the Nietzsche/Axe series, breaks all Pink and Blue Publishing's sales records to date. Terence gets a 'Based On' mention in the acknowledgements, but it's Jesse's name on the cover.

'There you go,' Saul says, slapping him on the back as he points to the Best Seller list his website guy just added. 'Number one. Your own little slice of immortality, kid. Maybe one day, it'll be on the literature lists just like _Lady Chatterley's Lover_.'

Jesse raises his eyebrows and Saul shrugs. 'Well, maybe, maybe not. I wouldn't put a film adaptation out of the question, though.' He looks thoughtful. 'Jamie Dornan would make a great Axe.'

'Who?'

Saul waves a hand. 'You won't have heard of him. But he'll be big one day, you mark my words. So if you get any offers from Hollywood, kid, make sure you refer them to your agent.' He hands Jesse a card, which says _Saul Goodman: Lawyer, Publisher &amp; Literary Agent._

Jesse rolls his eyes, but still pockets the card. He thinks that might actually be fun. _You'll have to talk to my agent. _

But it feels strange, now that the book's done. He doesn't know quite what to do with himself. It's obvious that Mr White doesn't want him around, because he's been doing more and more of the work before Jesse even gets in, so that he doesn't have to spend time with him. Clearly, he doesn't approve of Jesse's literary efforts.

Jesse slumps in the chair.

'Hey,' Saul says. 'No time for lounging around on those laurels, kid. You're hot right now, sure, but the reading public is a fickle beast. You've got to keep feeding that beast the good stuff if you want to keep it sweet and happy on the leash.'

Jesse rubs his eyes. Looks like he still hasn't learned to speak Saul properly. 'Huh?'

'Sequel,' Saul says, in a _duh_ voice. 'The continuing adventures of Axe, Nietzsche and their Undead Army. We're already getting emails about the release schedule.'

Jesse sits up straighter. 'Oh. Wow. Really?'

'What can I say? This stuff is twice as addictive as your meth and it doesn't even rot your teeth. So, off you go. Get creating.'

He pushes the laptop towards him, and Jesse blinks. 'You're still gonna help me though, right?'

'I know I'm an inspiration, kid, but being your Muse can't be my full-time job. I've still got other shit to do.'

'But…' Jesse stares at the blank Word file. 'I need to, you know, bounce ideas around. I can't work it out on my own.'

Saul gives out a long-suffering sigh, but he's smiling. 'Isn't _that_ the truth. Boy, the things I do for my poor, can't-see-what's-in-front-of-their-eyes clients. Whoever said a lawyer-agent-matchmaker's work was never done… well, actually I don't think anyone ever did say that, but they should have.'

Jesse's about to say, 'Huh?' again when Saul goes outside and comes back with Mr White in tow.

'Meet your new writing partner,' Saul says.

Mr White frowns and says,'Huh?' which makes Jesse feel better.

Saul opens his drawer and pulls out a paperback, which he tosses across the desk. 'I took the liberty of arranging a limited edition print run. It's sold out already, but I kept one back for you since it's tax deductible.'

He nods at Walter. 'You'll want to read the whole thing to get completely up to speed, but basically it's the story of two guys who spend their time butting heads, fighting, and getting each other in and out of trouble, until they realise they're actually hot for each other, at which point they spend the rest of the story butting heads, fighting, getting each other in and out of trouble, and having sex. The internet has gone _wild_ for this thing, let me tell you.'

Mr White blinks at Jesse. He blinks back.

'Now,' Saul goes on, 'our little maestro here — that's you, kid — does his best work with a role playing partner to really wring out those creative juices, if you'll pardon the expression. Which is obviously where you come in, Walter. You'll get a cut of the not inconsiderable royalties and the personal satisfaction of knowing you helped sate the desires of an exponentially-increasing number of hardcore M/M BDSM crime thriller fans. Who could ask for more, right?'

He stands up. 'Okay then. I have an appointment with a DUI down at the station so I'll leave you to get started. You'll have at least an hour, and Francesca knows you're not to be disturbed. And I don't know if I've ever mentioned it but this office is soundproofed. You're welcome.'

Mr White gazes at the book in his hands. His mouth moves, but nothing comes out. Jesse hasn't got much further than blinking.

Saul strides to the door, then turns back. 'Oh, one more thing.' He points at Walt. 'You're a vampire now, so think acrobatically. Imagine you've got one of those harness things that you can fly around in. Sorry about the spoilers.'

And then he's gone.

Saul stops off for lunch on the way back from the station, so he's out for about an hour and a half. His office door is still closed when he gets back, so he sits at Francesca's desk and plugs his earbuds into the secret listening device he had Mike install for him a while back. He doesn't want to walk in if this particular meeting is still underway.

The voices are a little muffled, but perfectly understandable.

'No way, Mr White,' Jesse is saying. 'Axe does not have daddy issues. He has not-wanting-to-be-treated-like-an-idiot issues. He has how-about-you-show-me-a-little-respect-sometimes-_bitch_ issues.'

'Authorial intent doesn't count, Jesse,' Walt counters. 'Didn't they teach you that in literary criticism class?'

Saul closes his eyes and lets his head drop into his hands. 'I give up,' he says. 'I absolutely, totally, one hundred per cent give up.'

Francesca gives him a sympathetic pat on the back. 'You can lead a horse to water,' she says.

'Lead it? I'm gonna fucking _drown_ it in a minute.'

But then Jesse says something else that gets cut off, and the noise he makes after that is still muffled, but also perfectly understandable.

Saul pulls the earbuds out. 'Tell you what,' he says. 'We've been profitable enough lately. Let's just close up for the afternoon.'

Francesca already has her coat on. 'Works for me.'

Saul turns the lights out, and they leave the building arm in arm.

'We should probably, uh, tidy up,' Jesse says, looking around Saul's office. It's not like they've trashed the place, but a few things on the desk definitely got pushed out of position.

He doesn't think any of the stuff's broken, but if it is, he'll be happy to buy Saul replacements. He'll be happy to buy Saul absolutely anything he wants. Right now, Jesse could _kiss_ Saul.

Well, no. Maybe not that. Mr White probably wouldn't like it.

Jesse shivers. He's not sure that thought should be as hot as it is, but hey.

'That's a good idea, Jesse,' Mr White says, and smiles at him like he just came up with something that would win the Nobel Prize, and _fuck_, Jesse cannot get enough of that smile.

'I'm full of good ideas,' he says, and that's sure true enough. He has many, many, long-cherished and vividly-imagined ideas that he can't wait to start turning into reality.

'Mm,' Mr White says, lowering his mouth to Jesse's neck. The sound of his voice hums along Jesse's skin with the tingling crackle of an electric current. There's a brief, tantalising touch of rough lips and hot breath, and then that voice, low and uneven, in Jesse's ear. 'How about getting out of here in favour of somewhere with a bed? Is that a good idea?'

Jesse inhales sharply, and it feels like the oxygen hits him as hard as meth ever did. He feels dizzy, disoriented, adrift. Is this happening? Is he actually, for real, standing here with Mr White's arms around him and Mr White's lips brushing against his skin?

He sways, but then Mr White's hands are there, holding him up, keeping him steady. 'I've got you,' he whispers, pulling him in for a kiss that leaves Jesse just as breathless and gasping as before. He tries to say _yes, yes that's a good idea,_ but nothing comes out except a low-drawn out sound that's not so much a word as a simple expression of need.

But Mr White seems to understand it anyway, because he kisses him again, hard and urgent, then grabs hold of Jesse's hand and leads him to the door.

Either Walt's sense of time is off, or he breaks not just the speed limit but the speed of light on the way to Jesse's house. _Fuck you, Einstein_, he thinks, and laughs with a kind of fierce, joyful abandonment he can't remember ever feeling before. If you want to break the laws of physics, clearly all you need is the proper motivation. And the thought of Jesse, naked and hard and waiting for him, is an extremely motivating one indeed.

They barely manage to shut the door behind them before Walt's mouth finds Jesse's again, before his hands bunch and twist in the material of Jesse's shirt, trying to pull it over his head. 'Off,' he murmurs, and his voice sounds ragged. 'Off.'

'You gotta let me go, then,' Jesse says, and Walt can hear the smile in his voice even as it's mumbled, almost indistinct, against Walt's throat.

'Oh,' he says, because it's true, and also because it's devastating. He wants more, he wants to _see_, but he doesn't want to let go. He never wants to let go.

Jesse pulls back, just a little, enough for Walt to see the heat in those impossibly blue eyes, and oh God, he should definitely have done more cardiovascular exercise because his heart is hammering in his chest and his breath is catching in his throat and he really, really doesn't want to die before he gets to do this.

'It's all right,' Jesse says, and Walt realises he must have said that out loud. Jesse gives him that glorious, joyful smile, and laughs. 'You get to come back as a vampire, remember?'

Walt laughs too, and it loosens the constriction in his chest and sends all the air and blood and _life_ back into his body.

'Off,' he says again. 'Take off your clothes, Jesse.' Then he adds, 'Don't make me tell you again,' because now he _knows_ he wasn't imagining the reactions those words have previously provoked.

Jesse gasps and throws his head back as an almost convulsive shudder goes through him. He looks at Walt, his eyes blazing, then steps back and does exactly as he's told.


	6. Chapter 6: Epilogue

'Okay,' Ken says, looking around the circle. 'Does anyone have anything else they want to share?'

'Hell yeah,' Suzy says, and pulls a copy of _Nihilistic_ _Tendencies_ out of her bag.

Jesse finds himself grinning stupidly as, one by one, all the others start pulling out copies of the book too.

Ken takes a pen out of his jacket pocket hands it to Jesse. 'I think I would call this a success story,' he says, and Jesse blushes as he signs his name.

'When's the next one coming out?' Suzy says. 'I can't wait to find out what happens.'

'Me too,' Jesse says. 'I haven't nailed down all the scenes yet.' He smiles. 'But I'm working on it with my new co-writer. We're trying out a lot of ideas.'

'So what went down in here?' Mike says, showing his clean-up crew into Saul's office.

'You definitely don't want me to answer that,' Saul says.

Mike looks round. There are no dead bodies, no blood, no bullet holes that he can see. 'You sure you need the full works? These guys don't come cheap, Saul.'

Saul waves that off. 'Just make sure they do a really good job on my chair. I want that thing _sterile_.'

Mike frowns, but Saul passes over a fat envelope full of cash, which Mike considers to be a perfectly adequate answer to any and all questions.

He shrugs, pockets it and gets on with the job.

Gale spends a lot of time questioning his competence after he gets fired, until the day he spots Walter White and Jesse Pinkman, the young man who unfathomably usurped Gale's position, in a grocery store. Pinkman glances at him and frowns slightly, as if he can't quite place where he's seen Gale before, but then Walter comes around the other side of the aisle, and Pinkman forgets about Gale. Pinkman smiles at Walter and it looks like he forgets about _everything_. And Walter returns the exact same smile.

Gale quickly shrinks back, but there's no chance they're going to see him. They're clearly not seeing anything but each other.

And just like that, everything suddenly falls into place.

Confidence in his abilities restored, Gale starts applying for teaching positions. And when Mr Fring calls a few days later and says his chemists have 'left to pursue other avenues of employment' — a euphemism for 'been shot in the face' if ever Gale's heard one — he politely declines the offer to come back. On balance, he'd rather have a job with a slightly longer life expectancy.

'I'm sorry,' Marie says, 'but you're going to have to run that by me one more time. Walt earned this money doing what?'

Skyler takes a deep breath and counts to ten, then starts again. 'Writing erotica. About a vampire biker gang. With Jesse Pinkman. Saul Goodman publishes it, and people buy it through the internet.'

'Erotica.'

'Yes.'

'By which you mean—'

'Porn, Marie. Yes.'

'With Jesse Pinkman.'

'Yes. '

'And you're okay with this?'

Skyler sighs. She has money, a job doing the accounts for _Pink and Blue Publishing_, and an uncontested divorce. She really doesn't see the problem here.

'Yes. Marie, can we focus on the important part? The part where he earns a lot of money doing this? Money you can use to pay off Hank's medical bills?'

Marie gives herself a little shake. 'Yes, of course. Sorry. Skyler, you're right, it's wonderful, thank you. And thank Walt for me. It's just…' she blinks hard. 'You're sure this is the truth?'

'I've read the books,' Skyler says. She hesitates, then gives a tiny shrug. 'They're not bad.'

'Right.'

Skyler waits.

'Okay, I'm sorry, can we just go back over the part where Walt writes gay vampire porn with Jesse Pinkman?'

Skyler rolls her eyes and starts counting to twenty.

Dawn takes the new nurse to room 217. 'This is Hector,' she tells the girl. 'See his bell? That's our special system for communication. It's one ring for yes, two for no, three means he wants to use the alphabet board, and four means he wants you to read to him.'

The girl picks up the book from Hector's nightstand. 'Ooh,' she says. 'We did this for my book club. It's good. I love the vampires. But I think Axe should run away with the funny lawyer.'

'Everybody does,' Dawn says.

Hector gives his bell a resounding ring.

Badger's thumbs fly over the controller as he unleashes a kick-ass combo of moves all over Skinny Pete's ass. _Pow!_

'So,' Skinny says, 'Jesse's book, huh?'

'Yeah, dude. Sweet.'

'You read it?'

Badger flips his hair out of his eyes. 'Nah, bro, reading's not really my thing, you know? All those _words_. I totally looked at the picture on the cover, though.'

'Cool.'

'What about you? You read it?'

Skinny shakes his head. 'Thought I'd just wait for the film. Films are always better than the books.'

'Righteous,' Badger says. They fist bump, then get back to the game.

Jesse wakes up slightly groggy and disoriented, not sure for a second where he is. Then the last few months all come back to him, in an immersive rush of images and sensations. It has both the bliss and familiarity of a thousand fantasies, and he thinks briefly of Terence: _and then he woke up, and it was all a dream_.

But Mr White shifts in the bed beside him, and throws an arm casually over Jesse's body, and something hard and very definitely not dream-like grinds into the muscle of Jesse's thigh.

Jesse rolls over.

'Mmph,' Mr White murmurs sleepily, his eyes closed.

'Wake up,'Jesse says, sliding his hand down between their bodies. 'Mr White, wake up, it's time to go to work.' He grins. 'We've got a hell of a lot of sex scenes to get through.'

Perched on a high stool in a bar in Alaska, John Smith, once known as Terence, hits the forward button on his Kindle until there are no more pages to display, then switches it off and finishes his drink.

'Well, shit,' he says slowly. 'I guess that _was_ a better ending.'


End file.
